The Dismal Rain

Melancholic feelings fall as rain among the mind of the soon to be corpse,
Writhing the once useful energy away into the air,

The moans encompass the last thought that articulates the sensation of the approaching demise,

the reflection of all that it has done in the hope that it was worth something, surviving into the future within the bodies of others.

Time slows in the moment that every living thing wishes was the quickest.

The little sparks that demand movement start to darken and the once tough mind hardened by the battle of selection is driven malleable and bereft of clarity out of the lack of necessity.

This is the romanticized lyrical adaptation of the war between the instinctual fight and the solid resolution of predetermined biological fate that forms a gossamer cloud over every carefully molded mind that attempts to find contentment as beauty floats desperately away into oblivion.

This is the iridescent moment that lies between the expectedly sudden trauma and the bitter void that can never be truly experienced by anyone honest enough to write it down free of a holy bias.

The last movement of a tragic song that is played out on the organs of a freshly trampled body and in an exhausted mind that holds the prudent force of consciousness and sheer will of life.

Then it ceases,
and the lugubrious sound of life's pensive melody can be heard only as echoes in the rocks and dirt of the earth to which we all return.

This is death.

And it is a grotesquely, hauntingly, depressingly, beautiful corner in the extravagantly macabre painting of nature that envelopes the finale of life.